


Invisible to the Eye

by LovingLovelyLoners



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Crowley Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Holy Water, Hurt Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens), Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:22:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24308161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovingLovelyLoners/pseuds/LovingLovelyLoners
Summary: Six thousand years is a long time.(I feel like a lot of stories dealing with suicidal thoughts are very dramatic. I'd know, I've written several of them.This one is a bit different, I hope. Sometimes, you just need to be held.)
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 118





	Invisible to the Eye

_Sometimes the heart sees what is invisible to the eye._ -Harriett Jackson Brown Jr.

\---

The strange thing is, he can sense the grace in it. He knows it’s blessed, knows by pure demonic instinct that even a drop of it on the right part of him would destroy him entirely.

And yet.

And yet, for some reason, Crowley isn’t scared. He’s not calm either, but there is a resolute certainty in him when he looks at the thermos that he has never felt before in his existence.

_This is a choice,_ he thinks. _My choice_.

Because he’d meant it, when he told Aziraphale that it was for insurance. He’d meant it, because he didn’t realize what it would _feel_ like to know that he could end himself, forever, and all it would take is a simple pour.

He didn’t realize that it would feel like _relief_.

He didn’t think that being handed that thermos would bring with it the weariness and pain of an endless lifetime, and knowing that _I never have to hurt, ever, ever again if I just…_

“Satan,” he breathes, closing his eyes and pushing against the sleek black countertop. _It’s there, it’s right there, it would take so little…_

“My own extinction shouldn’t feel so bloody tempting,” he says to the empty apartment. It’s then that an unjustified streak of anger runs through him.

_You go to fast for me, Crowley,_ echoes through his head like ringing after a gunshot.

He starts to unscrew the cap.

_I’m not going to—I don’t need to, right now, but I want to see it, want to know._

The cap comes off, too light in his hand, and he sets it gingerly next to the thermos. He miracles a tall glass onto the counter. It’s identical to the ones already in his cupboard, but Crowley finds that he does not want to take his eyes off of that tartan pattern, won’t turn around even for a moment.

He picks up the thermos, and tilts it towards the glass. Slowly, the holy water spills into it, and for a moment, Crowley feels extraordinarily human. Feels entirely made up of these tiny, intense sensations, the weight of the thermos in his hand, the simple sound of water meeting a hard surface and climbing higher, higher.

Once the glass is half full, he puts down the thermos, steps back, observes. It moves a little, jostling up against the sides of the cup, settling quickly into stillness. From this angle, the granite counter under it is clearly reflected, the smooth stone shining beneath the deadly liquid and the kitchen light above.

_I could_. _I could, right now, I could._

He squints, leaning towards it, trying to smell the heaven in it, taste a change in the air. But there’s nothing. Ordinary water in every sense, besides that singular knowledge that this is something of Her.

_It’s not fair,_ he thinks, then physically recoils at his own thought, eyes staying fixed on the subtle movement of the water. _But I knew that already._

_I want to end_ , he thinks.

_I want to,_ he thinks. He does not move.

Crowley stares silently at the water, and time passes. The muted sound of cars outside accompanies this contemplation, and it feels like the eye of a storm, the kind of peace that can only be found in the center of utter chaos. 

Which is why it is incredibly jarring to suddenly feel a familiar celestial presence in his foyer, quiet footsteps moving towards him.

“Oh, I thought—” Aziraphale says, cutting himself off as soon as Crowley’s wide eyes lock with his.

“You might want some help,” he finishes, eyes flicking lower, voice going breathless, speaking to the glass on counter.

Crowley’s mouth opens, the start of a confession, an apology, an excuse. Nothing comes out.

Aziraphale looks at him, and Crowley can only watch as subtle shock morphs into a quiet, heartbreaking anguish, the angel’s body sinking into itself as his heart pleads that his eyes have read the situation wrong.

“ _Crowley_ ,” he breathes, the word as painful as a dying breath. So Crowley moves, eyes never leaving Aziraphale’s, coming up to him and taking both of the angel’s hands in his own, holding them firmly between their chests.

“I wasn’t going to,” Crowley’s useless throat finally chokes out. “I wasn’t. I wouldn’t, Aziraphale, I wouldn’t.”

He’s begging Aziraphale to believe him, but he honestly doesn’t know whether or not it’s the truth.

Aziraphale winces at the sincerity like it burns, and it’s all Crowley can do to wrap him into a tight hug. They have never hugged before, but the distant realization that Aziraphale has never felt so small makes Crowley’s heart ache, deep in his chest.

“Angel,” he says, lips curling into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck as Aziraphale’s soft cheek finds his. “I won’t. I promise.”

Aziraphale’s hands come up to circle his waist, steady and firm. But then Aziraphale crumples into him, falling into Crowley like he can no longer hold himself up. His forehead leans heavy on Crowley’s shoulder, hot breath on his skin. Crowley holds him even tighter, face pressing into soft blond curls, lips pressed into the crown of the angel’s head. They stay there for a long moment, the only sounds in the room soft puffs of breath on skin and the ruffle of shifting against fabric.

Aziraphale regains his strength, pulls up a little, but stays pressed into Crowley.

“I understand,” Aziraphale says into his skin, and the implication spreads through Crowley like his blood is turning into sharp ice. “Six thousand years is a long time.”

_No,_ he tries to say, but he’s silent. The weight of those awful words hangs heavy in the air around them. Crowley tries to remember the last time he saw hellfire on Earth.

“But,” Aziraphale starts, moving back. They’re still touching, still holding each other, now just distant enough for Aziraphale to stare into his eyes, a death grip on his soul.

“You are not alone, Crowley,” he says, words trembling for the first time as he speaks the demon’s name.

“And,” Aziraphale continues, only pausing to get control of his strangled voice. “You have _no idea_ how much you mean to me.”

“I’m sorry,” Crowley whispers, because he’s a coward, he’s nowhere near as strong as Aziraphale, can’t let out something more honest no matter how hard the words claw at his throat.

“You’re not alone either,” he says, and it feels useless, parroting Aziraphale’s kindness when he wants to say so much more. Still, it makes the angel smile as he steps away from Crowley, something bittersweet and blindingly genuine.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says, too open, too earnest, too much more than Crowley deserves right now.

“Would you mind, ah--“ Aziraphale starts, eyes breaking from Crowley’s to gesture at the holy water. Crowley snaps without looking behind him, and the glass and thermos vanish from view.

“Oh,” Aziraphale sighs. Then, tentatively asks, “Where is it?”

Crowley grins and moves towards his framed Mona Lisa, not taking his eyes off of Aziraphale until he knows the angel is following him. He gestures at the painting, smile going just a little wider.

“Behind here,” he says, not bothering to take the picture off the wall. “Safe and sound.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale says, hands clasping in front of himself as he looks to the painting, to Crowley, to the flat around them, to the ground.

“I suppose…I suppose I should go,” Aziraphale says. In seconds, the space between them has gone from world-shakingly tender to a shade of awkward.

_He doesn’t want to leave,_ Crowley thinks. A variety of feelings well up in him, indignant and endeared all at once.

“You could stay,” he offers, not quite meeting Azirapahle’s eyes. “If you like.”

“Well, I know you usually sleep, it’s nearly four in the morning, I wouldn’t want to interrupt,” Aziraphale babbles, but doesn’t move towards the door. Crowley huffs a short laugh.

“You’re not interrupting anything,” he assures. He lets himself get just a little closer to that angelic warmth, lets the slightest bit of his heart leak into his words.

“Stay,” he says. “Please.”

A tiny wave of shock rolls over the angel’s features, before a smile dawns on his face, warming Crowley to his core.

“Alright,” Aziraphale says, “just this once.”

So Crowley walks with him into his bedroom, miracling on a set of silk pajamas as Aziraphale takes in the new space.

“You don’t have to sleep,” he mumbles at Aziraphale’s amusement. To his surprise, Aziraphale snaps and is now wearing his own set of silk pajamas, a warm cream color in delicate contrast with the everything else in the room. Something dusty and faded has also made its way onto the bedside table, and Aziraphale carefully picks it up, inspecting the cover and sides as Crowley climbs into bed.

Crowley stays sitting up, watching Aziraphale closely as he puts the book back on the nightstand and pulls the heavy sheets up before laying down. The bed is wide enough that they aren’t even close to touching.

And that’s just the thing, isn’t it. Because they’re good at silence, have to be, after knowing each other for literal millennia. So Crowley could bid him goodnight, turn his face into the pillow, and find a lovely, decadent café to wile away their morning before they part ways. But he feels like he’s waiting for something, so close, yet not close enough. He’s waiting, he’s waiting.

Crowley is also exhausted. Not from exertion, but from whiplash, from _you go too fast for me,_ from _six thousand years is a long time,_ from _you are not alone, Crowley._ He doesn’t have the energy to wait anymore, not for something he knows can have, even if he shouldn’t ask for it.

“Can I?” He asks quietly, the only response being a confused quirk of the angel’s eyebrows. Crowley shifts over and leans down into the bed, moving slowly, pressing his head into the angel’s side, an arm around that soft middle.

It feels quite strange, if Crowley’s honest. His legs are longer than Aziraphale’s, he’s not quite sure where to put his arm, and he doesn’t think Aziraphale could comfortably hold a book without an elbow to his face. But Aziraphale turns just slightly into him, places an arm behind his head, starts to run fingers through his hair, and the discomfort immediately fades.

Crowley sighs, shifts closer, pulls the angel in tighter. Golden eyes fall shut. The last thing Crowley is aware of is the press of gentle lips into his hair, warmth spreading through his human and ethereal bodies alike as he holds the only being in the universe that truly matters to him.

**Author's Note:**

> Just for the record, Aziraphale has _manners_ okay, he wouldn't just appear out of nowhere without knocking or ringing Crowley first. 
> 
> He might, however, silently pop in to quell his worrying if he thought he could while Crowley was asleep and none the wiser. 
> 
> (Clearly, that didn't go as planned, but it all turned out for the best, didn't it?)


End file.
